Towards the Waters and the Wild
by NorahMars
Summary: An obsession that is bred to destroy everything in its path. Admiral Marcus wants his own army of super soldiers. He's at the cusp of finding it through test subject Dren-061, but there stands various problems in the way of perfection and Khan is going to fix them whether he wants to or not. Khan/OC STID spoilers.


**I do not own Star Trek. **

**A/N: I am not a science major (hell would freeze over before that ever happened), I don't know even have a clue what genetic engineering basically entails. And I'm clearly writing about something I don't know, **** how thrilling. **

**It was just that I saw STID and thought the augment blood wasn't really used to the advantage that it should have been by Marcus, then I saw Star Wars Attack of the Clones the day after and got that itchy, inspiration feeling when I saw the Clone army on Kamino and it wouldn't leave me the hell alone until I wrote it down. This is the product. Enjoy :D! **

**Summary: An obsession that is bred to destroy everything in its path. Admiral Marcus wants his own army of super soldiers. He's at the cusp of finding it through test subject Dren-061, but there stands various problems in the way of perfection and Khan is going to fix them whether he wants to or not. Khan/OC STID spoilers. **

**Part I: Mad Men **

The cell was damp, dirty, and cold.

It stored meager furnishings: a scratched-up steel table, a small odorous cot that retained one pillow and a stained sheet, and two rickety old chairs. All items untidily displaced about the room.

A lamp hung loosely from the ceiling, providing the only source of minimal light.

The brief assessment of his uncomfortable living conditions was all by observation. The worn fixtures held no essentiality to his survival or his taste. His body was constructed to endure harsh conditions of war: heat resistant, cold resistant, adaptable to change. He had no required need of sleep and rarely any form of sustenance—though even that small smear in his genetic makeup was a sore subject, something that he would rather die first than reveal to any other sentient being.

Hunger endures—he loathingly admits—a deplorable need that had to be satiated.

They'd thrown him in here six days ago, which was three days more than he calculated for he and Admiral Marcus' long overdue conversation. It'd been so long that he was beginning to consider some foul play at work.

Despite present predicaments working against him and the way his thoughts raged at the imaginings of what could have happened to his crew within this duration of time, he did not disclose its effects on him. Instead, he devoted much of his days indulging in what he considered pleasurable recreation and many other inferiors considered drudgery.

Before all the usual psychological games were executed, the manipulations and the murders were performed—there was the preparation that he took his pleasure from. The design of where the shot goes and into who and how many would he want to kill while proceeding towards his goal held more significance than any other conscious function of his superior mind.

His kill list was substantial due to his recent carelessness. The amount was not so tedious that he would not do his duty well to honor each name, but naturally he would have liked his hunger savored and not slacking when the time came to honor his most coveted name: Admiral Alexander Marcus, who only came first before his daughter.

With such an extended amount of free time to spare and no need of sleep at all, it was morbid how many hours he spent pondering the most ideal method to deliver his justice. Skinning seemed promising, castration, burning, bleeding out—all very prolonged, creative, and enjoyable. At least for him.

It was so difficult to make his choice of one or the other that he reasoned that perhaps he could do a little bit of everything given reasonable time.

While his thoughts pandered about that subject, the door to his prison clicked. The titanium steel bar slid to the side and automatically propped open. A guard appeared on the other side of the door, offering a quick salute to the person on his left before departing. Revealed to his eyes was none other than the person of his latter thoughts, trenched and capped in usual military garb, holding various folders in his hand.

Admiral Marcus strolled into the cell seeming to be freed of any thought to his own safety.

This raised Khan's ire. It affirmed many things, that the cell had most likely an offensive system invisible to the eye. A private surveillance room, perhaps, located inside one of the four walls and phasers hidden in each darkened corner, already aimed center-on at the back and forefront of his head.

Then again there could not be, because by now they both knew who had the upper hand. The chances of escaping this prison were probable, a success rate of 69.34%, but without the knowledge of where his kin may be, he had not even a speck of indication as to where to begin his plan. He was only left with knowing that if he killed Marcus, something that he terribly wished to do, then there would be an inevitable, irreconcilable chain of consequences in his wake—if not for him, then most definitely for his people.

"Apologize for the wait, Khan. Lots of things happening in Starfleet at the moment." Marcus smirked at him with knowing eyes.

He imagined gouging those eyes out of their sockets.

Xxxxx

The room was white, uncomfortably so.

The ceiling and the floor and the walls were painted the pasty, clinical color.

At the moment the lights were off and the room was in obscure darkness.

She was lying in her canopy bed at the end of the room surrounded by medical equipment. She was ashen-faced and emotionless even when deep in slumber. There were sallow green veins around her eyes and her strikingly pale hair was scattered across her pillow, dripping slightly over the side of the bed. Her hands and feet were pinned by thick, steel cuffs. Red indentations were blaringly apparent where the cuffs grazed the underlying skin. An IV needle punctured her right wrist and electrode patches positioned on either side of her forehead.. The patient monitor positioned near her bedside beeped steadily. A metal collar was wrapped around her neck, its light flashed every few seconds in the darkness.

Gradually the lights began switching on starting from the opposite side of the room until it triggered right above her.

The blaring brightness that it shed caused her brows to crinkle.

For a moment, it was as if all of time had halted. The world stood stock still with its mechanical hands pointed at exactly eight and twelve.

She fought to stay hidden in her mind. It was where there was always a comforting smell of foreign herbs and spices, the sensation of grain and sand awash her limbs, the distinct flashes of days in sunlight and faces that she could never put a name too but was still consoled by. As each second passed, the pictures faded one by one back into her subconscious and what remained was only fire. The intense, searing flames that had been previously dormant in her sleep were reignited and once more burned with a vengeance.

The clock ticked.

Her eyes shot open at the impact; mind, heart, body—all roasting in an agonizing, burning hell.

Immediately, the holoscreen on top of her ceiling flashed on for BBC News' good morning greeting.

'London's weather forecast stands as partly cloudy with 0% chance of precipitation…'

'…The Pell X96 is tomorrow's robot. High programming, high efficiency, and high security…'

'…Yesterday saw the disappearance of one human male who has been identified as…'

The acclimations proceeded on for the next ten minutes while she lied there, attempting to place all her concentration on watching the program instead of the steadily uncomfortable weight of her heart as it initiated into the usual stage of heavy, palpitating throbs. Accompanied with the monitor beeping more frequently was the higher intake of air into her lightly wheezing lungs.

Even through all this, she managed to show no emotion.

"Good morning Dren."

Her eyes met his as he sauntered into the room, clipboard in hand.

She watched him silently for a long moment before her mouth moved to form words that still tasted foreign on her tongue, "Good morning Dr. Mason."

"And how do you feel today?"

She paused, assessing her condition before quietly stating, "I am…46.879% below optimal level starting from 14 days, 2 hours, and 36 minutes prior…with a 4% increase from yesterday."

He smiled softly and wrote the numbers onto his report, "That's absolutely fine. We'll be fixing that today."

Some tension was released from her shoulders at that response.

Her doctor pushed his glasses further up the bend of his nose before flipping the pages of a clipboard that was located on the foot of her bed. While he took down a few notes on his own clipboard, his eyes steadily strayed back to her.

His eyes, at one point or another, always seemed to find their way back to her. Sometimes he was nervous at the type of response she constantly seized from him. His own unwilling affection for his test subject made him, at certain instances during experimentation, regret his choice to take on this project. In spite of this, he found himself becoming increasingly obsessive with her after every single day that passes. She was his own creation, his Dren as he had christened her in the beginning of their relationship. Ruling her choices had garnered in him a warped frame of mind, something that he would eventually come to be proud of admitting if not reveling in. She was helpless in his control, constructed to follow his every command and the power rush from it was fucking addicting.

Before long she would be perfected, Marcus would have his Augments, and then he would have her all to himself for the rest of his life.

He smiled thinking about how much fun they would have together. Soon. Soon.

But for now, there were just a few more hurdles they had to get past.

"You've been doing quite well, Dren. I've been receiving outstanding reports from all your instructors—'flawless in all aptitude and simulation tests, exercises rigorously, talented in particular fields of advanced photon weaponry and technology.' But," He took his eyes off the paper to watch her reaction, "further screening shows increasing traces of neurochemicals being activated during your resting period."

Silence met his transparent query.

"In short, you've recently began having dreams Dren."

He tried to keep his tone gentle and understanding, but it was so difficult sometimes. Her eyes were staring off into another corner of the room as she was wont to do. He hated that about her, pushing down the keen desire to take her chin in hand.

"Confirm my statement, 061." He ordered using her specified code number.

Without delay she duly replied, "Dr. Mason's statement is correct."

He was dismayed to hear her confirmation. It seemed as if when one problem was solved, another popped up in its place.

"And what do you dream about?"

The response to his question was instantaneous.

She suddenly whipped her head towards him, eyes spearing at his. The cool emptiness of those deep depths was all but lost and in its place was alarmed confusion.

Her voice lightly shook as she uttered, "Dream is unrecognized. It is an impossibility for any augment to dream. Is it not?"

He stared at her in horrified wonderment. Her unnatural curiosity was a marvel at this stage but also a burdensome error. It was not something that could continue.

"Yes," he patted her hair as she gazed at him, "Yes, it is."

This seemed to return her composure for she leaned back again and quieted, receding into her thoughts.

He made it a mental note to desist all forms of graphic and expressive entertainment until further notice.

Unreservedly, he evaluated her body condition. Health was plummeting at an increasingly alarming rate, her lovely chest lifted up and down almost erratically as if not enough air was entering her lungs, her fists tightened around the steel bars that surrounded her entire bed, the serial number tag that was tied to her right foot lightly twitched even as her face bared no apparent signs of the warring agony searing through her limbs.

He supplied offhandedly with pretense towards her uncontrollable habits, "You must be in a lot of pain."

"I do not feel pain." Her words were back to being automatic and cold.

He rewarded her with a satisfied grin, finishing up his writing with a careless scrawl of his signature on the standard report.

Disposing the clipboard onto her bedside table, he informed, "Let's get you your medicine."

He stalked over to the door and opened it. The nurse that had been waiting on the other side politely handed him the rolling medical platter that carried five hyposprays. The liquid moving inside all clear containers was a deep, dark red. He did not need to look back to see that his subject's gleaming eyes were instantly, hungrily drawn to the filled syringes.

"It'll be five today," he spoke casually although he felt his body temperature jump to a certain degree at the predatory quality of her eyes, "instead of the usual eight. And our goal now is going to be three weeks. I'll monitor your conditions closely during training to see if there are any critical changes within that period. For now, try to make this batch last."

Because he definitely was going to.

He tapped one of the hyposprays with his forefinger and proceeded to lodge it into the right side of her torso where her heart lied. Dren gave a soft whine when the injection pierced her skin before she quieted. A moment later, there was a long, husky inhaling of breath.

He was not completely unaffected. He deemed that no other living, fertile being could salvage any resolve to be unaffected.

It was quite a sight. Her eyelids were unconsciously lowered, hiding those mysterious blue moons from his gaze. There was a greenish hue blossoming over her delicate cheeks as she gasped for air. Her head moved from side to side, shockingly pale hair that was already messy to begin with became even more disheveled. She had broken all ties to controlling her emotions, steadily being consumed from the inside by the euphoric sensation streaming through her veins.

He forced himself to look away from the intoxicating sight as he extracted the now empty hypospray and reached for another.

Turning back, he breathed in sharply as he observed her body beginning to squirm and thrash in her bed. The white hospital dress that garbed her body slowly moved up her legs to settle around her upper thighs, body curving up towards the ceiling.

He noted that the bruises around her eyes and the multiple cuts around her hands and feet were already beginning to disappear.

"That's right sweetheart," he caressed her cheek and injected the new one into her neck. "Take it all in."

Xxxxx

"You help me build my weapons to empower Starfleet's armada for the upcoming war—that means warships, photon cannons, ongoing projects, the whole nine yards. " the admiral prodded staring directly at him, "In exchange, I'll make certain that no harm comes to your crew."

Khan eyed him keenly, "If I might ask, Admiral Marcus, where exactly is my crew at the present moment?"

Marcus' eyes held a hint of speculation as if he wondered if he should answer or not. Shortly, he stated, "They're safely stored in Section 31 in London, where you'll be working if you accept my proposal." Then there was no other choice in the matter, Khan thought. He was in an unknown location, and he knew Marcus would have made it certain that his prison was as far away from London as possible.

"I should mention that if you agree to this, Khan, your war criminal charges that you acquired back in the mid-1990's are gone, poof, just like that. I can do that for you. You'll have a whole new life apart from all that, a fresh start that you can use to help Starfleet save billions of lives in the long-run."

The admiral's flair for the dramatics was pathetically laughable up front.

His words were strong and stable just as his outward appearance seems. They were thoroughly coated in gold, justice, assurance, and goodwill. Yet behind this faultless veneer, it was easy to sense indications of greed, a lust for power, and an irrational high-mindedness to act as judge, jury, and executioner. Traits like these made for a breakable opponent, one who could easily play right into his hands if he waited patiently.

"This is all for the greater good." The man pledged after being met with silence. He gazed at him with beseeching eyes.

All for the greater good— moments like these made Khan feel so fortunate that his genes gave him invaluable discipline over his emotions or he would have been set out on his knees trying to reign in his hysterical laughter.

The tactless statement was met with a gentle tilt of his lips, "My people and I were originally created for the purpose of expanding peace and prosperity in a time of pandemonium. It will be in my interest to revert back to that particular path in my life. I accept your terms Admiral, and I will do whatever I can to help."

A wide, close-mouthed smile crept onto the other man's face, appearing sincere if not for the obstinately hidden motive in his eyes.

"I'm pleased to hear you say that, Khan. I really am."

That particular sentence made him wary, what was the old man hiding now?

Marcus took time to dig out a file from the disordered mess of weapon images and product details now spread over the steel table before handing it to him.

Khan peered inside to find copies of his new name on his Federation citizenship, his Section 31 security pass, a few pages containing his new personal background, a shuttle ticket to London, and a small envelope containing a credit card.

"There's enough credits in there for a flat in the city," the admiral informed, pointedly staring at the credit card, "after that, your salary should be sufficient to uphold any living expenses you may have."

"Thank you, sir."

"It's my pleasure, Commander Harrison." The admiral stood up from his seat, holding out his hand for a shake, "Welcome aboard, son. You start next week on Monday at 0800 hours precisely. I'll see you then."

While a vast number of questions that still remained unanswered routed through his brain—for example the unusual amount of freedom Marcus was providing him with—he stood up to take his adversary's hand for hopefully the first and final time.

Xxxxx

I would like reviews =), just puttin' it out there.


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